


the butterflies you give me are literally making me nauseous

by ragnarGang



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Other, Unhealthy Relationships, also just me thinking how scary the auths would be working together, oh yeah, this.... is lowkey shameful but i love a good angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22803409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnarGang/pseuds/ragnarGang
Summary: post-left is once again destitute after an ideological split with their former an-comrades. so they go back to the only place where they had a home, only to find themself caught between authoritarian unity.
Relationships: ancap/libertarian, ancom/authleft, ancom/authright, authleft/authright/ancom, leftist unity - Relationship, opposite unity - Relationship
Comments: 50
Kudos: 171





	1. i'm feeling quite lost right now

Post-Left hadn’t intended on going back to the centricide. They were content in living in their anarchist commune, spending each day barely conscious in a smoke-hazed drug den. However, as with all of their hopes and dreams, that fantasy had been crushed. It had only taken a fight about ideology for them to be back on the streets, clutching at a ratty duffle bag with all their worldly possessions. It had been an idiotic idea anyway, all of their friends were still optimistic ancoms who still believed in whatever they thought would be a just world. Clearly, those ideas of equality did not extend to people who do not agree. Post-Left couldn’t believe that they themselves once thought that change could be achieved by punching a few conservatives and that the crushing forces of the world would be fixed with violently enforced pronoun buttons. Shrugging the duffle bag onto their right shoulder, Post-Left passed their bat from hand to hand, using the handle to knock at the thin wood of the door of the house they were standing in front.

  
The centricide house loomed high above them, looking like a mirror copy of every other suburban house on the idyllic street. The only thing that made it stood out was the various flags that flew above the doorway. The shocking red, black, and white of Authright’s preferred flag (that Post-Left had tried to burn many times when they were still Ancom) hanging right beside the garish yellow and black of Ancap's flag, as pristine as the day the capitalist bought it. Tankie’s flag also flew, still the tattered hammer and sickle that the Russian swore was the original flag of the union. However, there was now an empty space beside it where Ancom’s flag used to hang, the brash red and black cloth that once made their heart swell with pride.

  
Post-Left felt a twisting in their heart, lip curling into something cold and angry and something they had never really felt before. Were they really forgotten that easily? The second they stopped being useful to the movement, every trace of them is thrown away like trash. Just like every other revolutionary Tankie used, discarded and erased from history. Just like the millions crushed under Authright’s heel, loyal party members executed as fast as his mood changes. Just like the brutal maw of Ancap’s free market, leaving those deemed not useful to starve.

  
But, there was nowhere else for them to go. Just this empty house where a now-dead version of themself lived, and the biting, lonely cold of the streets that they never wanted to return to again.

  
Wind cut across Post-Left’s cheeks, the biting chill sweeping across their exposed skin and bringing blooms of red in its wake. They shivered and pulled a cloth up around their nose. It was no longer their signature bandana, bright and vibrant with painted phrases. This was a torn piece of fabric with blood and stains soaked deep into the material, dull reds and greys mixing with the faded original black.

  
A few lumbering steps sounded from behind the door and Post-Left breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn’t even had time to think about what they would say to the person answering before the door flung open.

  
Tankie stood at the other side, dishevelled with a furious scowl on his face. His ushanka hung askew on his head, covering one of his eyes. The hair not obscured by the hat was messy, the curls twisted into an unbrushed snarl. He looked horrible, red and purple rings encircling his eyes, speaking of sleepless nights and far too many drinks. His expression was scarier, harsh lines cut into his face spoke only of anger with a sneer that was far too much like Authright’s.

  
Post-Left stared at him. They hadn’t expected to see Tankie like this, no longer poised and self-assured like they assumed he always was. Hell, they hadn’t expected to see Tankie at all. This would’ve been easier to explain to anybody else. Ancap would’ve probably not even cared about their betrayal if they had just promised to pay rent for lodging, and Authright would’ve doubtlessly invited them in just to see the ideological victory that he had won over what remained of the leftists.

  
“Anarchist. What do you want?” The communist spat, nothing but contempt on his face. Post-Left stepped back slightly, shrinking into their too-large hoodie as they stared up into the face of their erstwhile friend. They had at least thought that Tankie would be happy to see them, maybe they would apologize for their harsh departure, and the communist would forgive them and protect them again. Now, however, they looked up at the figure they had never found all that intimidating before and gripped their bat tighter, arms shaking from instinctual prey-like fear.

  
“I,” Post-Left inhaled, other hand clutching at the loose fabric of their hoodie. “I want to come back.”

  
The communist growled, a low, deep sound rumbling from deep within his chest. “You are an izmennik. Being a ‘post leftist’ makes you no better than the centrists we hunt.”

  
He leaned down until they were nose-to-nose, lips drawn back in a snarl. From this distance, Post-Left could smell the alcohol lingering on Tankie’s breath.

  
“Tell me then,” he sneered, words building to a roar. “Why shouldn’t I kill you right now? For abandoning the cause, for betraying us, for becoming a centrist. You deserve it, don’t you, krolik?”

  
A chuckle echoed from within the house, self-assured and smug.

  
“Commie!” It called, drifting languidly with the confidence of somebody who had already won everything that there is to win. “Who’s here?”

  
Tankie grabbed Post-Left’s wrist, squeezing hard enough to make them drop their bat and drawing a high whimper out of their chest.

  
“The Ancom,” he answered gruffly, eyes still fixed on his former comrade.

  
A delighted chuckle came somewhere behind the door, closer now. Then, Authright’s wide grin emerged past Tankie’s shoulders, peering over it at Post-Left like a cat playing with its prey.

  
“Well, the degenerate came running back after all.” Laughing, he leaned his head on the communist’s shoulder. “Do you think he came back for you? Maybe he missed you as much as you missed your disgusting little ‘Anarkiddy’.”

  
Post-Left had almost forgotten what it was like in the house, but this was an all-too-uncomfortable reminder. They tugged their arm frantically, attempting to free themselves from Tankie’s grip. The misgendering only further fueled their panic, nausea twisting uncomfortably in their stomach and heart pounding in their chest. They were trapped now, an animal lured too far in by promised safety and what felt like home but the trap only tore deep into their flesh. It was only a matter of time before somebody would come and press a cold muzzle against their head to put them out of their panic-addled misery.

  
They locked eyes with the bolshevik, fear-dilated pupils searching wildly for a scrap of mercy in this soldier that they had once called a friend. Their silent begging was only met with a cold fury, burning with the same self-assured righteousness that had glowered behind rifles and firing squads so many times in the past.

  
Lightly, Authright nudged the Tankie aside, getting only a glare from the communist that was still far too focused on Post-Left. The anarchist’s breath hitched and held, a sinking sense of dread filling them like seawater filling a ghost ship. The authoritarians seemed far closer than they were before they left, no schism or harsh divide between them, just a tenuous unity of the states, and that scared Post-Left even more than the bear-like hand squeezing bruises into their wrist.

  
Authright grabbed their other arm, fingers digging into the flesh of their upper arm through the worn-thin sweater. With a quick tug, he pulled them inside, smile shifting into a sadistic smirk. Tankie let go of their wrist in turn, slamming the door behind the three of them with a foundation rattling bang.

  
“W-What the fuck! Get your fascist hands off of me!” Post-Left snarled, attempting to jerk their arm away from the statist, like the feral last resort of an animal fatally trapped. The white identitarian only responded by tightening his grip, dragging them to the living room where they had all spent so much time together. Tankie followed, stalking behind them angrily.

  
The bat remained on the porch, shining in the mid-afternoon light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gents... i had no beta for this so feel free to tell me if i fucked up. also i have..no idea where this is going so if yall have any ideas toss them my way


	2. somewhere big and scary cause you're scary as shit, dude! like, i don't really know what i can tell you

The house didn’t change. For some reason, Post-Left somehow assumed that it would’ve, that the authoritarians would’ve painted the walls with Ancap’s blood without the drug-addled power of lib unity. However, the house was exactly what they remembered, with boring off-white walls and a strange mix of carpet and wood that the anarchist didn’t understand the reasoning for. 

They were very carefully focused on the plain living room where they were sitting, eyes skipping around to glance at the window and the doors leading out. Trying to escape was a futile effort though, even the once-optimistic Post-Left knew that. From here, they could almost feel the heavy weight of Tankie’s gaze on them, as cold and damning as a Siberia-chilled muzzle pressed against their forehead. Authright had left them here, throwing the anarchist onto the couch before turning to leave, mumbling something over his shoulder to Tankie about ‘catching up with the degenerate queer’. 

Tankie had done nothing of the sort, choosing instead to glower at Post-Left from his seat at the far left of the couch. 

“So, uh, hey.” Post-Left tried to greet their friend, voice wavering and fearful.

Tankie only growled in response, his glare somehow intensifying. Flinching, they stopped talking, choosing instead to stare down into their lap, their fingerless-glove clad hands twisting together in some form of a coping mechanism.

The silence between the two stretched on. The atmosphere of awkward fear and anger being a stark contrast to their easy comradery before everything went wrong. There were no longer any unrealistic plans for a shared revolution, no messy debates over the roles of the state, only the heavy tension between two people who had once known each other.

“What?” Tankie said, the word spat out like a curse. 

“W-What?” Post-Left startled, some remnant of their old voice returning with their surprise. 

Tankie softened, broad shoulders uncurling as he tried again to speak, voice far more gentle now. 

“What was it that you wanted to say?”

“Oh! Uh, just. Just wondering where Ancap was, y’know? I saw you and the Fash earlier, but I haven’t seen any sign of Ancap anywhere. He was like, always the loudest with his phone calls or whatever, and the whole wearing all yellow thing really didn’t help with the whole ‘not seeing him’ thing, so it’s just a little weird and I’d thought I’d ask?” They rambled, nervousness making their words stumble and run over each other. 

The communist snorted, shifting in his seat.

“We all agree that values are not something that anarchists, especially not that kulak, possess. Да?” 

Post-Left began to protest, but Tankie held up a finger, and that was all it took to silence them again. 

“Shortly after  _ your _ betrayal, he decided to defect as well. Perhaps  _ this _ war was not as profitable as he believed it to be.”

The anarchist sat, silent for a moment before they spoke again, a childlike vulnerability ringing through their words. 

“A-Ancap isn’t here anymore?” They had missed their fellow anti-statist while they were gone. Beyond politics and convenient alliances, Ancom had believed that the two of them were friends; that lib unity, whatever it meant politically, was real with them. They used to spend hours together, high off whatever drug Ancap would import at an exorbitant rate and Ancom would promise to pay him back for, and just… talk about everything (except the economy that Ancom didn’t truly ‘understand’). And now, the capitalist had left, leaving Post-Left in what amounted to an authoritarian regime. 

Suddenly, they wished that they were anywhere but in this house with two murderous regimes. Ancap had always been the mediator between the four extremists, never going beyond a smug explanation of the ‘free market’ when debates about ideologies rolled around. His strict adherence to the NAP also meant that Ancom could barely throw a punch at Authright before getting an earful about some dumb pact that they almost definitely didn’t sign. Now, however, they didn’t even have that to fall back on. 

Tankie stared at Post-Left, frustrated disbelief colouring his face.

“Да. That was  _ literally  _ the entire point of my last two sentences,” He sighed deeply, taking off his ushanka and running a hand through his clearly unbrushed hair. “I don’t even know why you’re so devastated. The kulak was a proponent of everything you stood against, and you whimper his name when it was  _ he _ who chose to leave. Yet you abandon your comrades and your struggle with nothing more than a hasty goodbye. What about your morals? What about the beliefs you tried so hard to get any of us to care about?”

The communist was getting angrier now, working himself up into a frenzy. Post-Left had often seen him like this before, self-righteous anger taking control of the taller man until he was red, ranting and raving about things nobody but Ancom cared to listen to. However, they had never felt this anger directed towards them. Tankie’s rage filled the room, and Post-Left felt the same heavy vulnerability as when a white man looked too disgusted at them on the subway. The sense that something was terribly wrong, and that there was nothing they could do to protect themselves. 

Slowly, they reached out and placed a hand on Tankie’s knee, looking at him in a way that they hoped would remind him of who they used to be. 

“I’m sorry,” they whispered, the apology coming up like last night’s alcohol, burning and twisting its way up their throat. None of the extremists apologized, there was no room for that when you believed in your own superiority as much as they all did. But this was not the action of a radical, this was the action of someone disillusioned enough that their only wish was to survive.

Freezing at Post-Left’s touch, Tankie stopped in his rant, turning to look at the anarchist. His burgundy eyes were wide, bloodshot from some mix of drunkenness and insomnia, but filled with unguarded hope, blooming like a sunflower in winter.

Post-Left swallowed and smiled, they would be whoever they needed to be in order to survive. 

“No, no,” Tankie placed one of his hands, large and rough from hours of manual labour, onto Post-Left’s and leaned in, staring deep into their dark grey eyes. “I am sorry, Anarkiddy. I understand that you and the kulak were playmates, and I cannot fault you for allowing childish emotions to control you.”

It was at that moment that Authright walked in, steel luger gleaming in his leather-gloved left hand. He had barely glanced around the room before seeing the leftists in whatever passed for an intimate moment between people that could never truly trust each other.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed, complete with an overdramatic eye roll. “I leave you two alone for ten fucking minutes, and you are already basically fucking. Commie, I genuinely thought better of you. Sure, the little freak of nature is disgusting and deserves a painful death, but I thought  _ you _ could almost be respected. Clearly not though. Absolutely pathetic.”

For once in their (new) life, Post-Left felt a flash of anger burn through their body. They had forgotten how much they despised Authright with his condescension and acid-laced words.

However, before they even had time to react, Tankie stood, one fist crushing the fascist’s left hand and the other gripping around his neck, fingers digging into his milk-white flesh. 

“Anarkiddy is staying, and you will  _ not _ harm him,” 

Authright nodded twice before Tankie let him go, stumbling back with a poison-laced glare directed at Post-Left. They looked back with a smile that the communist would call innocent and the fascist would call smug, wide-eyed innocence absolving them of any responsibility regarding the violence that played out before them.

Still, they couldn’t help but feel a sick twinge of satisfaction trickle through their veins at seeing Authright slink out the room, cursing under his breath and rubbing at the purple-yellow bruises already starting to bloom on his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hell yeah,,, this fic is getting dark ngl. at this point their relationship is gonna be a rock-paper-scissors cycle of abuse but hey, maybe ancap would come along and lighten the tone up a bit! who knows? surely not me!


	3. but in retrospect it would've been a bad idea, because you don't care about me, and like, I care about you, so that's bad

It had been an unreasonably eventful day, but finally, Post-Left was finally left to their own devices, free like someone under house arrest. Throwing their ragged duffle bag onto their old bed, they flopped down beside it as well, taking the time to look around their former room. It looked like it always did, their old laundry still strewn around the floor, the tattered trans-ancom flag still taped over their unmade bed. It all looked untouched, save for the thick layer of dust that settled over everything.

Post-Left blanched, a heavy frown twisting across their face. The careful mourning in the way that their room lay untouched, Tankie’s erratic behaviour, Ancap’s unannounced defection, the other extremists had all acted as though they had just  _ died _ instead of becoming someone else. But the scariest thing to Post-Left was that they didn’t know the truth either. Are they just a parasite that crawled into another person's dead body, puppeting their limp skin and past connections? Or are they just another stage in the same person’s life, a butterfly morphing back into a caterpillar?

Fuck. All this thinking was too much for them. 

Either way, Post-Left still had Ancom’s memories, and that meant that they knew where all the drugs were stashed in this place. Peeking under the bed, they let out a silent whoop. Hell fucking yeah, all of their dank drugs and drug paraphernalia was still here. Trying as hard as possible to remain on the bed, they stuck their head under the creaking bed frame, arms digging around the messy piles of pill bottles and plastic baggies filled with almost everything imaginable. 

It had been an eventful and frankly terrifying day, so Post-Left decided against the DMT, certain that they’ll literally have a panic attack if they do, choosing instead to get crossfaded. Weed was… weed, it’ll be enough for them to finally calm the fuck down instead of having an existential crisis, but it also felt a little too tame to actually do anything about their dread regarding the coming days. Luckily, however, they had alcohol to soothe that pain. Hopefully, they’d get shitfaced drunk enough that they completely forget the concept of the future.

Post-Left found that they wanted to do that a lot more now. Ancom had always looked forward to the future, quee thought that it would be a place where everything would be better. Post-Left thinks that’s a fucking spook, and would rather not think about the future at all. 

Shaking hands rolled crumpled receipts and quite a bit of weed into a shoddy joint, a bottle of cheap vodka nestled between Post-Left’s legs. A quick dig into their many pockets produced an old beat up plastic lighter and they quickly used it to light the joint, sucking in a deep lungful of smoke as soon as the flame caught. 

Fuck, they had almost forgotten how good that burn felt. Coughing out the rest of the smoke, they exhaled deeply before taking a deep gulp from the bottle they were curling around. The alcohol burned on the already smoke-irritated flesh of their throat, but they didn’t really care. It’s not like they were going to be sucking dick anytime soon and they don’t use their mouth for anything else, so it didn’t even matter. 

After their joint had burned to the last twist of roach and the alcohol made their head swim with a buzz, Post-Left stood up, dropping what’s left of the joint into the trashcan by their desk and setting the alcohol on their nightstand. 

In a way, they felt bad for Authright. Sure, the man was a shitty nazi that wanted them and everyone like them dead, but… nobody deserved to be treated like that, not even authoritarian spooks. 

Post-Left’s room suddenly felt empty and cold. It was someone else’s mausoleum that they were only encroaching on, and they finally suffered the consequences of grave chill creeping through their flesh. 

Stumbling out of their door, they looked down the corridor that connected all of the extremists’ rooms. They were so cold and lonely, all they wanted to do was to be wrapped in safe, warm arms. But no such thing as safety exists in this house. Even the most ruthless murderer will limp away with blood and bruises dotting their skin.

Speaking of, Post-Left wanted to apologize to Authright. 

But there was another reason they stood in front of the eggshell blue door that led to his room. They couldn’t imagine how Tankie would react seeing them like this. It would probably be something between sickly sweet condescension and overbearing statist care. Either that or heavy disappointment and barely concealed disgust. At least they could probably predict the exact string of slurs that would come out of the fascist’s mouth when he opens the door. 

Reaching up, they knocked lightly on the door, the pleasant buzz of being unreasonably inebriated dying down into heavy cold pinpricks in their skin, a sharp ball of anxiety lodged in their throat.

Almost immediately, the door opened, Authright standing in the doorway and glowering angrily up at some expected visitor. Then he spotted Post-Left, far shorter than whoever he thought they were. His eyes widened in surprise for a split second before narrowing in contempt again, disgust curling at his lip. 

“What is it, Ancom?” he asked in a tone that could almost be carefully bored if not for the rasp that now coated his once-smooth voice, turning each consonant into a painful sounding croak. 

Despite themselves, Post-Left giggled. Their mood seemed to lift at once at the lack of expected hostility, the sharp joy of being crossfaded returning to their body. 

“That’s my deadname now, don’t call me that,” they pouted, sweeping their way past the fascist and beelining for the rather comfortable looking perfectly made bed in this pristine room. “Also, you sound like a giant frog.”

Turning around, Authright slammed the door with a foundation-shaking bang, barely concealed rage unfolding across his face like the bruises on his skin. 

“That’s because your  _ boyfriend _ assaulted me on your behalf,” he spat, following after Post-Left who was currently flopped out on the bed, limbs sprawled across the blankets and crumpling the once-crisp sheets. 

Authright sniffed, lips curling in disgust.

“Did you get attacked by a drunk skunk? You smell horrible.” He groused, attempting to pick up the limp anarchist to at least throw them on the ground. 

They only groaned in response, wrapping their limbs around the fascist.

“I’m sorry,” they slurred, curling into the warmth of Authright’s grip, “I didn’t want Tankie to hit you.”

“Answer my question, degenerate.” Stiffening, he tried to push them away, teeth clenched in an angry sneer. 

“I knew you’d say that!” Curling their arm around his neck, Post-Left pawed at the bruises on Authright’s neck, running their fingertips gently over the discoloured skin. “Are you alright? It looks like it really hurts.”

“Don’t touch me!” He bristled, shoving Post-Left to the floor in a heap of limbs. “If I needed any help, I would’ve ended my miserable life already. However, I do not, because I’m not some disgustingly weak  _ creature _ that relies on others.”

Stumbling back to their feet, Post-Left frowned, reaching up on their toes to poke at Authright’s neck again, laying their cool hands on the mess of purple and yellow flesh. 

“That’s really mean,” They murmured, nose scrunched in concentration for a reason that the fascist could not discern. “But still, I don’t want you to kill yourself!”

“I’m not  _ going _ to.” He replied, teeth gritted and shoulders tensed, the painful rasp in his voice lowering his volume until he was barely whispering, a sharp hiss of hostility warning others away like a wounded housecat. “Look, I’m tired and injured. The borders of my room are closed. Kindly get the fuck out before I deport you.”

Hopping back onto Authright’s bed, Post-Left shrugged, a mischievous smile dancing on their face. 

“Well, I’m not going to leave, and you technically can’t do anything to me or else Tankie will beat you up, so you’re just going to have to deal with it!”

Authright closed his eyes slowly and inhaled deeply, face twitching with genocidal rage. Then, he finally huffed in something that sounded like agreement, circling around the bed and getting on the other side. 

Post-Left didn’t stop with their incessant chatter, going on about something or other that Authright physically could not care about. Eventually, his exhaustion overtook him, sleep tugging at his eyelids and yawns travelling up his ravaged throat. 

The last thing Authright remembered before passing out was the soothing feeling of thin fingers running through his hair and a cool hand pressed to his aching throat, all set to the backdrop of over-excited rambling, each word blending into each other like rain splattering onto a windowpane. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was soft to write actually,,, its probably gonna get worse tho emotionally speaking bc i can never make anything happy. as usual im illiterate so if something's wrong please tell me


	4. just kidding, please do! i really wanna hang out with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-left gets a job offer. ancap is living his best life

Post-Left knew that they shouldn’t spend the night in Authright’s room. Even the heavy weight of Tankie’s threat hanging over them still couldn’t protect against the blind rage of a repressed man who found himself being vulnerable. Inebriated as they were, Post-Left still knew that fact like they used to know the steady weight of a molotov in their hands.

They looked down at the softly sleeping form of Authright, golden-brown strands of hair falling into his face, the tips beginning to curl despite the almost zealous way the man would straighten it every day. He looked peaceful like this; gentle, almost. Authright was a handsome man, every single one of his features sharp like a gleaming knife, from the cutting edge of his cheekbones to the casually condescending creases of his eyes that only looked peaceful when he was asleep. 

Maybe it was the drugs making them sentimental, or maybe it was the last shred of hope left in this body sloshing around like the last mouthful of drink in a bottle, but sometimes, Post-Left couldn’t help but wonder who they all could’ve been. 

In another life, could they have all been friends, unburdened by secret wars and politics and hate? They could catch a glimpse of that sometimes, like when they all sat in amicable silence in the living room of the house, each tending to their own little tasks. Like now, when Post-Left looked down at the sleeping and bruised form of Authright and realized ultimately, that he too was just a person, not a monster or a villain that was larger than life. Just a deeply misguided man that could’ve been so much more in another world entirely.

Possibilities made Post-Left feel heavy, with regret lodged in their throat. They didn’t like thinking about better worlds anymore, not while they lived in this one, overrun with violence and fear and the crushing weight of oppressive states looming over them. 

Sighing, Post-Left attempted to manoeuvre themselves out from under Authright, trying to slip out without waking the sleeping fascist. The walk back to their room was short, quicker now that they were somewhat more sober and not craving for any shred of human intimacy. 

For the second time in a day, the anarchist flopped down onto their bed, a thin plume of dust coming up from the almost-untouched bed at that motion. Kicking off their boots, they snuggled under the thick blankets that hadn’t been washed in far too long, not even bothering to change into their normal pyjamas of a too-large t-shirt and dirty boxers. 

The exhaustion from the past day must’ve finally kicked in, because Post-Left could only remember stretching out on their bed with a groan before the cold darkness of sleep took them. Even in sleep, they were cursed with misfortune, the waking world’s bone-deep exhaustion turning to sour pain in their marrow in sleep. It kept them up, tossing and turning until they woke up, sweaty and feeling like they hadn’t slept at all. 

When they awoke, they didn’t remember where they were. The sterile drywall being nothing like the garish green their commune was painted. Sitting up, they blinked, squinting around the room before something finally clicked in their brain, all the memories of that too-long day flooding back to them. 

With no offence meant to either of the statists, Post-Left really did not want to stay here in the house. Tankie had been acting strange ever since they’ve been back, angrier and more condescending and scarier all at once. The authoritarians, once seemingly equal in power, now seemed to be ruled by the crushing grip of the red spectre haunting Europe. Authright also seemed to have changed, where before his views were so pathetically appalling nobody wanted to listen to him rant, his tongue now dripped with golden-sweet promises that could almost be believed. Of course, Post-Left wasn’t dull, they had always been afraid of the two of them, but it seems as though with the death of the moderates and quite a few of the centrists, the two statists had only gotten more dangerous. 

Digging around in their pocket, Post-Left found their phone. It was on a thrillingly low charge, but a quick dig around for a tangled and frayed wire soon eliminated that problem. With two quick swipes through the apps Tankie had meticulously organized for them, they found what they were looking for. The garish yellow profile picture of a grinning Ancap greeted them, his phone number listed right below, helpfully labelled as ‘Kulak’.

They shot off a quick text to the capitalist, unable to even muster the energy to get up while they waited for a response. A heavy grey settled in their chest, the thought of getting out of the bed of someone technically dead seemingly like a herculean task that would be impossible to achieve. They waited for a couple of minutes, switching restlessly between Twitter and Tumblr like a caged tiger, waiting for a response that still hadn’t arrived. 

Picking up the phone once again, Post-Left sighed. It was literally impossible for Ancap to have not seen his text, the man was practically glued to his phone, perpetually making one business deal or another. So either their erstwhile ‘best friend’ was ignoring them, or the capitalist had overindulged in consumerism once again and bought another phone entirely. 

Post-Left inhaled deeply, trying to find a way to muster up the energy to press the call button. The blankets piling high above them feeling more like a crushing weight, immovable in its pressure. 

They knew what this felt like, the stiff cement quick-drying in every one of their cells, dragging them into somewhere separated from their body by a static wall, cutting them off from the outside world as well.

Mental illness was one hell of a drug. 

Their hand curled hard around the phone, pressing the cool metal so hard into their hand that it hurt, dull and distant like someone had smothered their nerve endings. 

Finally, their thumb moved and pressed the bright green call button. 

Somehow, Ancap picked up after only one ring.

“Hello?” The capitalist greeted in his smug cadence, a flippant greeting tossed out to someone he probably doesn’t think was important. 

“Hi,” Post-Left mumbled, not having enough energy to even fully enunciate their words. “‘t’s me, Post-Left.”

“Pos-?” Ancap sounded confused, cutting himself off before he finished saying their name. When he started speaking again, he sounded more subdued, something melancholy settling over his voice. “This is Ancom, right?”

“No!” The protest shot out of their throat before they even realized it, voice tearing with something between anger and panic. “I-I’m not. That isn’t my name anymore.”

There was a short pause and despite themselves, Post-Left felt nervous. Ancap had never been the type to care about these things before, but they had all changed so much recently. Maybe his friend was no exception.

“Alright.” When the entrepreneur spoke again, Post-Left could almost hear the shrug through the phone and they sighed in relief. 

Even if every other extremist had morphed into something more dangerous, at least Ancap seems to be sticking to his principles of non-aggression. 

“How are you doing? I had heard from Commie that you had defected, and I left soon after myself. Those statists just love treading on us, huh?”

Post-Left huffed out a quick laugh, mirthless. They hadn’t realized how much they had missed Ancap until now, the fellow anarchist’s blasé attitude towards anything but money being a breath of fresh air after the overbearing nonsense from both of the authoritarians.

“I’m back in the centricide house.” They admitted, curled around their phone like they were a child afraid of someone coming to take away their own connection to the (relatively) sane outside world. 

Ancap sighed, tutting under his breath. He began to speak, but Post-Left cut him off first.

“I-It’s not like that. I would be anywhere else if I could be. I just… have nowhere else to go.” 

Then, they heard the tell-tale sound of fabric being rustled and the hushed tones of two people talking, too muffled by Ancap’s clothing for the words to be intelligible. Post-Left waited, anxiety clawing in their chest. Had they interrupted a business meeting? There was no way Ancap would’ve sounded so joyful if they had, but they also never knew the capitalist to speak to other people in real life other than to exchange goods and/or services for currency.

Finally, when the faint conversation was over, they heard Ancap lift the phone back up to his face, a smile clearly audible through his words.

“How would you like to stay with me and my husband? Of course, we’re not giving you a handout, but we do need someone to take care of our boys and make sure no one violates the NAP around them. That’ll be enough to justify your room and board here in Ancapistan.”

Post-Left reeled, sputtering. 

“H-husband?” they questioned, incredulity clearing up the fog in their brain enough for them to actually feel properly shocked. 

Ancap chuckled. ‘Yes, a proper spouse that I did not buy. Don’t act surprised, Postie. There’s a reason it’s called business _partners_ . Anyways, I _do_ need an answer, calls here cost an absurd amount and the competitor that wants to topple the monopoly hasn't expanded outside the slums yet.”

“Uh,” Post-Left paused, confusion racing dizzying tracks around their head. They didn’t really feel that opposed to living in Ancapistan, gone was the revulsion they used to feel when they thought of anything related to capitalism. Now, they felt the same indifference that they felt about most things. It _was_ a stateless land, which is better than this house. Hell, anything would be better than here, with a war that Post-Left didn’t want to fight and two authoritarians that they didn’t want to see at all. “I’ll do it.”

“Great!” Ancap chirped, a happy tone threading through his voice the way it always did when he closed a deal. “Swing by to Ancapistan anytime and we’ll escort you to our main property.”

Then he hung up, probably not wanting to waste communication fees on simple small talk. They could catch up more when Post-Left actually began to live with him they guessed. 

Rolling out of bed, they looked at the stash of drugs underneath their bed before stuffing all of it into their still-unpacked duffle bag. Seeing as how they still had more enough space (being thrown out on their ass didn't exactly give them a ton of time to pack), they grabbed a few pieces of clothing off of the floor and threw them in as well. 

That was probably everything they needed. Eyes sweeping around the still-dusty and dirty room, they couldn't’ve imagined how they used to care about any of this bullshit. Anime posters hung on walls beside advertisements for protests, and all of it was so utterly inane. 

Pushing themselves off of the floor, Post-Left shouldered their bag, gently pushing open the door and hoping to not be caught by either of the statists. 

Of course, nothing ever goes right for them. 

Standing right there in the hallway were Tankie and Authright, they themselves each having a pack of their own. 

Seeing Post-Left creep out of their room, Tankie’s face burst in a wide grin, turning to Authright triumphantly. 

“I _told_ you that Anarkiddy wanted to come along to the centricide!” He crowed, grabbing Post-Left’s arm and dragging them over to stand beside him.

Authright did nothing but glare at them, sharp teeth bared in a hateful growl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is somehow both rushed and late,,, oopies. if theres something wrong, please tell me. if theres something right, i need validation to live so Please Tell Me. thank u for your time.


	5. you're ruining my life day by day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-left makes it to ancapistan, but with unwanted company

Post-Left saw no point in trying to explain themselves. They had been regaled with enough tales of executed defectors from an all-too-proud Tankie to know to keep their mouth shut. Perhaps Ancom wouldn't have thought so poorly of queir comrade, but Post-Left could already remember a phantom bullet ripping through unsuspecting flesh.

Regardless, even if they were not strung up and executed as a centrist menace, they highly doubted that Tankie would even allow them the free will to leave of their own accord. He had always been an overbearing presence in the anarchist’s life, ready to dictate their every move as though they could not decide anything for themselves. 

Forcing a smile onto their face, Post-Left nodded, looking up at Tankie with the wide-eyed admiration that they know used to be sincere. 

“Of course!” They chirped, trying to sound as much like Ancom as possible with the too-high voice that was only a desperate ploy to have the others acknowledge who they were. 

Authright rolled his eyes, shouldering his bag and turning towards the door. 

“Bring the soyboy or don’t,” he said, ignoring Post-Left entirely. “It’s not like he’s going to help with anything anyways.”

Tankie bristled. “Anarkiddy was a great asset to centricide, he defeated Political Nihilist!”

“Yeah, after letting the Progressive get away, and still needing your help to be saved from the fucking monkey. Face it, Commie, he’s weak, and he’ll only slow us down.”

The grip around Post-Left’s upper arm tightened. 

“We will not leave Ancom alone again,” Tankie stated, teeth gritted and the tone of his voice leaving no room for argument. 

Authright huffed, yanking open the door with the same repressed anger as a teenager throwing a tantrum.

“Fine.” He bit out. “Watch him fucking die or whatever, see if I care.”

A hot flash of rage roiled in Post-Left’s chest. They were tired of being treated like a liability, nothing more than a pet to be tugged around on Tankie’s leash. Anger spread through each of their limbs and Post-Left remembered the satisfying crack of a neo-fash’s skull breaking beneath their bat. They shut their eyes, exhaling deeply. They would be gone soon and this doesn’t matter, not anymore. 

“Come along, Anarkiddy.” Tankie’s voice drew them out of their reverie, his hand tugging gently on their arm. He still spoke to them like they were a child and in some small act of rebellion, they tugged themselves out of Tankie’s grip, shoving ahead of the authoritarian and exiting the house ahead of him.

“Where are we going?” Post-Left questioned the waiting Authright, whose arms were still crossed in some childish sign of petulance. 

“We recently received the location of the centrist hide-out and it’s not far, a day’s march perhaps.” It was as though a switch within the fascist had flipped, his immature tantrum replaced by bloodthirsty warmongering. His spine straightened into perfect posture and Post-Left  _ heard _ the click of his steel-heeled boots. 

“Да.” Tankie cut in, startling Post-Left, who hadn’t actually heard him leaving the house. “According to maps, it is unoccupied land the entire route so we will not run into enemy.”

A sharp smile spread across Authright’s face as he looked up at Tankie, eyes unfocused with the memory of some far-off war. 

“We’re on the march now, Genosse.” Then, he  _ laughed _ , it was a sound of pure elation that Post-Left had never heard coming out of his mouth before, unabashed excitement lurking under the surface of each word. 

To their surprise, Tankie smiled back at Authright, his own posture shifting to military perfection. 

“We will crush centrists beneath our boots.” Tankie stepped forward off of the porch, a predatory growl rumbling in his chest and a grin of assured victory already proud on his face.

Out of the corner of their eye, Post-Left spotted their baseball bat, half-hidden in the bushes beside the porch. For once in their life, they thanked what their old self would say was a colonialist and classist ideal of a perfectly manicured suburban lawn. The statists seemed far too wrapped up in whatever homoerotic promises of victory they were exchanging to pay them much mind. Creeping over, they picked up the weapon, quickly shoving it into what little space that remained in their duffle bag. When they returned, the authoritarians seemed to be done with ‘strategizing’, as both of them would’ve likely called it, instead of talking about war with far too much sexual tension. 

Logically, Post-Left knew that this was going to be a long trip, boring and exhausting, especially with two controlling authoritarians instead of literally anyone else. However, as morning stretched into afternoon and they travelled from suburb to desert, the anarchist couldn’t help but feel like a tied down toddler during a long car trip. Their feet hurt from walking so long in their heavy steel-toed boots, their duffle bag dug into their skin with the heavy weight of their baseball bat, and worse of all, they were excruciatingly bored. 

“Tankie,” They whined despite themselves, looking up at the stone-faced statist. “How long until we get there?”

“Soon, soon,” Tankie replied absentmindedly, eyes locked onto something on the horizon. Ignoring Post-Left entirely once again, he leaned down to whisper something in Authright’s ear, brows furrowed in confusion. 

“That  _ is _ strange,” Post-Left heard Authright murmur, his eyes squinting at the far off space. 

“What’s happening?” Butting into the conversation once again, Post-Left tried to look more closely at the shape to no avail. The sun was at the perfect angle as to shine into their eyes, and frankly, it didn’t look interesting enough for them to worry about it.

“You don’t need to worry about it, kiddy,” Tankie brushed them off once again, continuing his conversation with Authright in low tones.

Luckily, the fascist seemingly didn’t know how to keep his voice down, or at least, not over-enunciate words to the point where he could be heard even while muttering. 

Post-Left couldn’t catch much of it, but they heard snatches of words like ‘isn’t supposed to be there’ and a very hesitant ‘check the map’. 

However, despite all of that, they kept marching, Tankie and Identitarian occasionally exchanging quiet words to one another as the city on the horizon became clearer and clearer. 

It was a metropolis spiralling up into the sky, purple and yellow neon lights overtaking the sun even during the warm late-afternoon. The entire city was surrounded by a black gate with a wrought iron fence, far taller than anything that Post-Left (or Ancom) had ever climbed over in their lives, which was truly saying something. In fact, it was strange how the city remained so contained, the buildings continued until they didn’t, there was no slow petering out of the buildings, and none of the suburban sprawl that Post-Left had grown to hate. 

The statists stopped suddenly, their almost-synchronized march grinding to a halt. Stumbling slightly, Post-Left caught themselves before they walked right into Tankie. The authoritarians were straight-up purposely excluding them now, the two in a small huddle speaking rapidly at each other, whispered words rattling like machine-gun fire. 

Wandering closer to the gate, Post-Left inspected it further, raising an eyebrow at the intricately carved gate with the letters ‘A’ and ‘L’ gilded in the iron. They had a hunch about whose city this was, and they sagged with the relief that came over them. So, despite everything, they had ended up in the right place after all. Maybe now they would finally lounge in the company of the one chill person in this entire goddamn war again.

Eyes catching a small button placed at the side of the gate, they glanced over their shoulder at the statists, who were still caught in their discussion that was rapidly becoming an argument. It was clear that the two didn’t expect Post-Left to actually do anything other than to stand there and wait for instructions. Luckily, they were an anarchist, so fuck that. 

Reaching forward, Post-Left pressed the button, half-expecting a nuke to immediately destroy the three of them at the gates. However, nothing of the sort happened, the small speaker installed above the button simply began to ring. 

Almost immediately, Post-Left heard Tankie’s telltale heavy bootsteps running towards them. 

“Anarkiddy!” He yelped, wrapping a hand around Post-Left’s wrist once again. “What are you doing?”

Shrugging, they held their ground, ignoring Tankie’s attempts to gently tug them away from the gates. “Clearly, this city isn’t supposed to be here according to your map, so I’m calling to see if they’ll let us through… and if we can hitch a ride.”

Identitarian ambled closer to the pair, sticking his head near the still-ringing speaker like a curious cat. 

“What a fucking soyboy cuck,” he offhandedly insulted, eyes squinted and nose scrunched in Concentration as he stared at the doorbell, seemingly deep in thought. “I told you Commie, he’d never survive a day in a real war.”

Tankie opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by a loud burst of static from the speaker. Wrestling their wrist out of Tankie’s grip, Post-Left moved in front of the speaker, shoving Authright out of the way.

“Hello?” A familiar drawling voice on the other side called out, distorted by grainy static but still unmistakably Ancap. Post-Left let out a silent whoop, a grin spreading across their face. 

“This is me, Post-Left,” They said, sticking their face right up to the gate. “I’m uh, also here with Tankie and the fascist.”

A long annoyed groan came from the speaker and Post-Left couldn’t help but empathize.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” whined Ancap. “Why’d you have to bring them?”

Tankie’s questioning stare weighed down on Post-Left, and they were sure that Identitarian was genuinely trying to kill them with his glare. 

“Well,” They began, hoping that Ancap would pick up on the ruse. “We’re on our way to the centricide, but we’ve found that… your city is in our way?”

Judging by the silence on the other side, they guessed that he understood the situation enough to not reveal their ‘backroom’ deal to the two people who would literally shoot them if their plan had been revealed. 

Ancap sighed again, a huff of static through the shitty gate speaker.   
“Fine. Libertarian and I are coming. Stay put or we’re nuking you.”

Then, the connection cut off with a short buzz, leaving Post-Left alone with the laser-sighted glares of the two most dangerous people they knew. 

“Ancom,” Tankie growled, jaw clenched and chest rumbling in his deep baritone. “What was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again blease tell me if yall spot any mistakes bc I did write most of this at 2am. also if yall liked it please let me know bc that does motivate me to write more and yall don't gotta wait like a month b4 another update 🥺🥺🥺


End file.
